WeissKreuz Monsters
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: Mindgames. Jealousy. Powerful passions suppressed and submerged. Starring Aya, Yohji, Schuldig and Crawford. Will they murder one another? A dark take on romantic entanglements... rated for male male love.
1. Greeneyed Monster

Hi folks,

Four variations about a common theme, starringAya, Yohji, Schuldig and Crawford of Weisskreuz. None of the characters mine, all rights with current owners. Story mine and not for profit. Rating M for boy-loves-boy. Disclaimer and warning applies to all chapters.

Non explicit - if you are after mechanics, you won't find them here. If you like mindgames, see whether youfancy this one. Two rather tempestuous setups, two resolutions. Have fun, and perhaps you could drop me a line to say whether you liked it - methinks that cannot have been it between those four... they are too bloodyminded.

Cheers  
LH

**Green-Eyed Monster**

(Set after Kapitel, before Gluehen.)

Aya wore tidy blue jeans and a sweater that closely resembled the burnished orange of the one his sister had given him a lifetime ago. The jeans neither too tight nor too sloppy, the jumper fitting him loosely, and his growing hair in a neat braid, he looked tame, almost conservative. He walked into the lounge of their current safe house with a newspaper in one hand and reading glasses balanced precariously on the tip of his nose. Focused on the text, and holding on to the glasses with his free hand, he only looked up when a warm wave of Yohji's scent wafted over him.

Aya stopped dead, short of bumping into the blond, feeling his mouth fall open and his breath hitch in his throat. Yohji smiled, in his usual soft way that was much too inviting for Aya's liking. "Ayan, you alright?"

Aya fumbled for words. Being scrutinised by those incongruously sharp green eyes did not help, and he was getting angry at his own clumsiness, and at Yohji for making him feel like that. Always Yohji. Gentle smile and lucid eyes that looked right into Aya's soul. No one else had the knack for this. No one else could ever make him lose it like Yohji, overwhelm him with sensations, with _feelings_, and drown him in the throes of passion.

Aya's lips twisted in a thin sneer. Perhaps it would have been better had Yohji decked himself out in his usual oversexed attire – his fondness for netting and latex meant that, more often than not, he displayed an expanse of bare flesh beyond any measure of decency. Apparently though, he was taking the preparations for their upcoming mission seriously for once: he wore polished black shoes, neatly pressed charcoal coloured trousers, a black jumper from which peeped a spotless white shirt collar. Along with a grey blazer and a pair of smart rimless glasses, he looked every inch the respectable schoolteacher he was supposed to impersonate.

He also had cut his hair. Chopped off those soft, burnished-gold waves that used to tumble about his face and neck, well down to his shoulders.

Unthinkingly, Aya stretched out one hand and ran it over the short, bleached stubble. Yohji inclined his head, leaning into this touch. His hair slid silky, like fine fur, between Aya's fingers. So perhaps this hairdo did not quite fit the picture after all – too short, too bright, a tad too rebellious… it would go down well with his pupils, a bunch of snotty teens, if the mission brief was anything to go by. Had he calculated the effect? Yohji could be surprisingly calculating, much like Omi. A very businesslike trait, skilfully concealed behind this disconcertingly warm, pleasant smile.

But Yohji was still a killer for hire, Aya reminded himself with not a small deal of satisfaction. Whoring out his murderous skills for money, just like the rest of Weiss. Someone with blood on those long, hard, brutal hands that could make Aya melt into the honeyed heat that was Yohji… _Lots of blood… how loathsome… how… tasty…_ Aya bit back a moan, only half settled by all this and half raked up into a state of resentful arousal, and let his hand drop from Yohji's hair.

"Got it cut this morning. Like it?" Yohji enquired, a tiny spark of unease flitting through his gaze as he gleamed up at Aya.

"Does it matter?" Aya bit out. "It's done now." He had not meant to say that. He had wanted to rant at Yohji because he missed the feel of wavy blond lengths sliding through his fingers, the smell of cigarette smoke and the warmth of a supple body by his side. _Why do I never seem to be able to say the right things?_

Yohji was – still and undeniably – attractive. _Too pretty for a man_, Aya grouched silently, _with this sweet face and big eyes, those soft lips, that long neck… and too tall all the same…_

Not enough that Yohji was the eldest of their group – it had never ceased to bug Aya that the blond towered over him by a good head. And that behind his yielding, gentle façade, Yohji could be cold, cunning, and tough as nails. It was a startling contrast. It was _wrong_. Yohji could kiss and the next second kill, the smile still lingering on his lips, so sweet and pleasing… Aya hated surprises, and had never gotten used to this. He killed – admittedly with zeal – and was done with it. Smiling seemed unbecoming to their occupation.

"It always matters," Yohji said, voice low and smokey. It sent a shiver down Aya's spine. Yohji's smile was not bright. It was like the dusky glow of ash-covered embers, a promise of the heat beneath… so infuriatingly steady… so very hard to resist…

"Like shit it does," Aya bit out. So Yohji always made Aya feel insecure, wary and awkward. Because Yohji was so damn sure of himself, so comfortable in his skin, and appeared so impossible to scratch. Aya hated that too because he was none of these things.

Yohji's breath touched Aya's neck as Yohji straightened, his fingers briefly brushing Aya's hand that clutched the newspaper. Aya pressed his lips together in a hard white line. Yohji, anticipation and danger. Aya wanted, needed, was addicted to them, to the buzz that made him feel alive and assert his worth. Aya longed for a challenge that would claim everything he had, and let him sink into darkness. _Finality achieved._

"It does, Ayan," Yohji said, lifting his hand and sliding his fingers over the firm, heavy braid of crimson hair that trailed down Aya's back. Yohji was just what Aya had sought: fire pure, a challenge that pushed his limits. Lure, risk, thrill. Something to pick mercilessly at Aya's singleminded focus, making him burn with want and hunger.

Yet he denied Aya the finality he craved.

"It never did. Nothing matters to you. I do not matter to you. You will never change, Yotan." To reassure his pride, Aya had determined a lifetime ago that he needed to conquer what scared him, or destroy what he could not conquer. He had chosen his weapon because he had decided to shun subtleties in favour of head-on confrontation, but more often than not he had wondered, bewildered and uneasy, whether this approach included Yohji. Who was warming him when close, and searing him when closer… making Aya want to plunge into his molten heat and tear his heart out. Because the thought of writhing in those flames for an eternity scared Aya witless.

"…yan?"

Aya blinked back to consciousness to find Yohji's face almost nose to nose with his own, his hands softly kneading Aya's upper arms that hung limply, small, sword-worn hands curling into loose fists. He tensed, Yohji's grip promptly tightened. None-too subtly, either. Yohji could be blunt if he wanted to. "Aya, you're miles away."

"Let go." A low rumble deep in Aya's throat.

"I… I find that difficult," Yohji said quietly, and it ocurred to Aya that he was answering a different question altogether – Yohji was stubborn that way, and he would not let off now, as always when they got into this kind of argument. His hands clamping around Aya's arms in a steely caress. "I don't believe that rubbish you're spewing at me."

Aya gave him a gloomy glare. Yohji winced a little, but choose attack over defence. "Man, Ayan, why're you so damn stuck up? What d'you want me to do?"

_Wrong question,_ Aya mused bitterly. _It's what you do NOT want me to do… things you do not know of me… thoughts too black to be spoken, things too ugly to be done…_

"You wanna hurt me, don't you?" Yohji kept hold of him, but his eyes darkened as he sought Aya's gaze.

Aya cast his eyes down. Yohji used the moment to catch him offguard and yank him close. He could hear, feel the thudding of Yohji's pulse in the big vein at his neck. Warm, living, Yohji. Pouring heat into Aya's frosty soul, into his chill limbs and into hands that were always cold. _Like a corpse…_

Yohji held him. Yohji had always held him. Aya wanted nothing more than to yield and sink into this embrace, and with a harsh gasp he began to pull away, eyes flying wide open, terrified. Yohji knew too much. He saw too much with those uncannily beautiful eyes, so clear and sharp… the promise of being safe and restful too much to bear… Aya felt his knees buckle; the newspaper rustled as it fluttered to the ground by his feet, and his hands clenched, knuckles whitening even as his breathing became heavy and laboured, and his heart hammered wildly in his chest.

"Hai, you wanna hurt me." Yohji's lips a feathery touch against Aya's temple. "I won't let you do that, Ayan." His hands, holding on, steadying Aya, immobilising him. "There's no pleasure in pain, not for me."

_But he would. He always was a bad liar._ "Let go!" Aya gasped sharply.

"No." Yohji tightened his grip. Rings of steel clasping Aya's arms. Unyielding.

Yet Yohji was also weak where Aya was concerned. He would let Aya do what Aya pleased. He always did, always yielded, bit by bit, like the tide retreating, waves lapping a rocky shore, wearing away at the stone yet bursting into oblivion even as they were lashing it… it was this lack of resistance that scared Aya, for here he was on his own. Here, where he needed Yohji the most, where he was desperate for the curb.

Yohji's rubbed his thumbs over Aya's arms in small circles. Hard, wire-scoured, calloused thumbs that scratched over his skin, trying to soothe the reddening prints he had made in his effort to hold Aya still. Aya relished the hint of pain, the slight sting, the swelling marks to show for it. But it was not enough, not nearly enough… it was not a fight. _Fight me… why can't you see, Yotan? With those green eyes that always, always see too much… forbidden, breathtaking… and mine…_

"Yours," Yohji murmured into Aya's hair. "All yours."

_But not mine alone._ If he wanted to hurt Yohji, Yohji would let him. He badly wanted to hurt Yohji. Beat him out of his stupid dreams and hopes, until he would finally see Aya for what he was. _A monster…_ Accepted the truth and walked away, to finally set the limit Aya coveted, and relieve the terrible fear of loss… yet another loss, capable of tearing Aya's heart out for good. Aya had tried to kill off this useless piece of flesh, deaden his soul and flatten his mind. He had nearly succeeded, but Yohji, obstinate, muleheaded, sunny, had spoiled it. Because he steadfastly refused Aya his redemption.

"I don't believe you," Aya hissed.

Because once he saw, Yohji would walk out on him and screw someone else. But Yohji would still say he loved Aya, even when Aya had split his lip and planted welts and bruises on that perfect golden hide of his. Blackened those green eyes enough to make them swell shut. Bitten into the muscled flesh, beneath the tattoo that spelled his SIN, until it bled. Yohji, battered and exhausted beneath him, would still insist on chanting his love, and Aya would almost cry with misery.

"Then tell me," Yohji murmured, his lips ghosting over Aya's temple, "how to prove it."

Yohji's warmth seeped through Aya's body, and Aya felt boneless and angry. _Why won't he say NO for once? Why won't he hit back? He could. He is stronger than me. But he wrenches around in my guts with his stupid sweet talk, trying to make me FEEL… and he won't stop whatever I do…_

So sometimes, Aya wanted to make Yohji scream, but not with lust… the vision of the amber body, splayed out on the bed and splattered with crimson, his eyes clouded and sightless, made Aya shudder. _Think of something else. Now._ "What about Schuldig?" The words slipped out before Aya could swallow them down, and he swore under his breath when Yohji's fingers dug into his flesh a bit harder still. To hold him, to stop him from fidgeting, to calm him. To keep him safe and anchored, as always. Always Yohji.

Ignoring Aya's annoyed, slightly pained hiss, Yohji tried to see his eyes. "Schuldig is different," he said, a hint of impatience in his tone.

"You've taken to spending a lot of time with him."

"We talk." Was that sarcasm in his voice?

Aya tensed a bit more, muscles bunching, until he leaned stiff and heavy against Yohji. "You won't talk with me that much."

"Because it's like babbling to myself, or pissing in the wind." Yohji paused. "Do you want me to stop seeing him?" And then, suddenly sharp, "And what about him and _you_, Ayan?"

Aya glared some more. "What?" He tugged at his arms, but Yohji did not budge. If anything, he pulled Aya a bit closer still, until Yohji's breath stirred a few tendrils of fiercely crimson hair at the top of Aya's head, and Aya's short, hard body moulded against every nook and plane of Yohji's long, pliant one.

"Yanno, you going off to fuck him," Yohji specified with a mean tinge to his tone. "Or being done. I suspect it's the latter, Ayan. Is it 'cos you need it? Need control ripped from you once in a while? He's rather good at that, isn't he? He needs to feel that he can dominate someone now and then 'cos Crawford won't let him top at home. So he's got you for his doormat, and you're freaked out enough to like it."

"Fuck off," Aya hissed, jerking at his arms furiously. Yohji held on, his breathing hot in Aya's hair, against Aya's brow, and when Aya sharply turned his head, against his ear and jaw.

"The hell I will. Why can't you let me love you? Why is it never enough that I respect you and treat you well? Why can't you give me the same, huh? You hate me that much?"

_Yes. No, no, no. Wrong. This is all wrong… only where?_

"You are trying to control me, through him," Aya snapped, his whole body beginning to convulse in his attempt to free himself. Short of an all-out fight with Yohji, he would hardly break loose that way, but he had to try, did not want to yield to this black urge… too familiar, too tempting, could Yohji not see? Why did he refuse to grasp it? Why did he have to insist on ripping open what should have been left in its ugly confines? Why did he have to put his life on the line like this, reckless, stupid, for someone like Aya… always for someone else, Yohji was like that, and the risk was never worth it. Nothing was worth Yohji's life.

"Let the hell off," Aya snarled.

"Like shit I will until you calm down, dammit."

Aya moved harder. Pulled, heaved, tested how far he had to go before Yohji's grip would break. This sensation deep inside him was prodding Aya, as it had been doing for years, ever since he got together with Yohji, ever since he first felt this blinding sting, the frantic fear of losing what he had barely gained… it had always been such a fragile thing. He had known even before they slept with one another for the first time, meant to resist because he needed security and with Yohji could never have it. Because Yohji was easygoing, charming, and had the world at his feet if he only tried, and Aya was nothing like it and acutely aware of what he considered his shortcomings. It was an uneven equation. Unbalanced, unfair.

For Aya felt broken, and Yohji was whole. Aya resented it. He resented himself, and Yohji for not understanding. For forcing him to confront this every moment they were together.

"You're the freak here," Aya panted, "you trying to pull strings by using this looney!"

It would be easier to bear if Yohji were unable to run, escape and let Aya down. If Yohji could not drop him and turn him over to the blackness that swirled inside him, so it could swallow him completely. If Yohji were hurt badly enough, or fell ill enough for Aya to be sure he would not walk away…

"Pull strings?" Yohji shook him a bit and laughed. It was not a happy sound. "As if. Keep an eye, perhaps. At least I'm trying. Is that so wrong?"

Trying to do what? Protect Aya from himself? By keeping Schuldig at arm's length? _Or much closer perhaps? _"I don't need nannying!" _If someone broke him… his legs… those long, sleekly muscled legs that will part all too readily…_

Yohji shook Aya a little. "Right, you're old enough, hm? Not prone to temper tantrums at all. Not crazy enough to try and get yourself killed all the friggin' time…"

… _spread for anyone who wants him…_ Aya yanked at his arms and succeeded in freeing one; Yohji though knew the game, had expected this move and caught the flailing fist as it flew towards his face. Aya was tough, but Yohji was stronger at such close quarters and bent the unruly arm back behind Aya, pulling up the captive hand at a painfully uncomfortable angle.

_Why can't he ever listen? One of those nights, he'll end up banged and beaten to a pulp, a helpless heap at anyone's mercy, all mine, all mine…_ Aya felt tears of furious humiliation burn their way into his eyes and he bit his lips hard enough to draw blood to distract from the embarassing sensation… the same a child might feel at being thrashed over some trifling matter… utter, pointless, acrid shame, mingling with helpless hatred at the perceived cause of this defeat.

_All mine because he won't be able to run from me any longer, and I'll taste his fear and his blood… wonder whether they'll be as sweet as his lovemaking…no, sweeter, melting on my tongue as I lap up those bitter salty drops from the corner of his eye…_ and then he felt Yohji's lips on his eyelids. Yohji's grip stayed where it was, hard on Aya's wrist and against the small of his back, trussing him up against Yohji's tall body, restraining him, making him vulnerable and helpless and safe at the same time. Aya was in a mess, loathing it and wanting more, those soft kisses that trailed from his eyes over his temples with a tenderness only Yohji could give him. With his inexhaustible capacity for warmth and love. Because Yohji was not afraid of loving. Not afraid of Aya.

_Love. He should be afraid. How stupid. Him saying he won't let anyone do to him what he allows me to do…but it's nonsense, hollow lies…he is shallow, he is lying, he has Schuldig banging him, hasn't he, even though he denies it…_ and Aya hated himself for wanting this, as well as fighting it off. Fighting Yohji, for once, until he was still and cold and limp, bleeding his life away, those bright green eyes dull with pain… this golden hide turning ashen as the warmth left him, this silken tongue silent, all those honeyed words thrust back into his throat, with Aya's fingers round his neck and boring into those points that would suck the life out of him for good while Yohji sucked-

_Again, again, this dream, this nightmare… too tempting. Too close._ "Stop it," Aya choked out, and with a desperate effort, tore free. His heart pounding against his ribs, his breath coming in heavy gasps as he staggered back against the door and groped for the doorknob.

Yohji stood still, his arms dropping limply to his sides, the smile on his lips fading, his eyes overcast. "I love you, Ayan. Why're you making it so hard for us?"

Aya's fingers closed around the smooth cool metal, his knuckles whitening as he squeezed it with a force as if to crush it. _Because it cannot be… mustn't be… I am not like that. Not like Yohji the slut, the faggot, the pansy. All soft and mushy. Not ever like him, and I mustn't fall for all this rubbish he keeps blabbering so he can get me into bed with him… he deserves to get hurt. He deserves every single bit of this. He should-_

"It's not hard for me," Aya retorted, trying to sound as hurtful as possible. He turned the knob and pushed at the door. Yohji looked lost one of a sudden, his smiley façade crumbling, and Aya felt a strange satisfaction pour into his raw soul. _Finally. Yohji shaken. Would he cry? He did cry once, in this bitter, hard way. No tears, just sounds, small and strangled, deep in his chest… this broad, warm, tanned chest… almost like those noises he makes when we have sex… so it does hurt him after all, no wonder, it would hurt anyone to be done dry and rough… he's been lying all along then, hasn't he, there's no pleasure in this. Nothing. It means nothing at all…_

Yohji looked as though he was about to make a step towards Aya, but he hesitated. "Yes, it is, Ayan, it's hard for you too." He sounded odd. Off. Brittle. "You hate me 'cos can't control this inside you. You don't trust yourself. And you can't bring yourself to trust me. So tell me, if you got the guts, what d'you want me to do?" Yohji cocked his head a little, his eyes cool, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his blazer. "Or are you a coward after all?"

_This question again, and he's digging, provoking, why on earth would he not let off?_ _So what?_ Yohji's words hammered in Aya's brain, who lifted his free hand to briefly rub at his temple, his eyes sliding shut for a heartbeat. He knew the answer. Had always known it; it had crept into his mind the first time Yohji had asked: the only answer that was right and honest, the only way he could gain peace. _Die, Yohji. No small deaths, no… die for me, and for me alone. Let your blood wash over my hands and let me keep you close, dead and cooling, for that's better than having you alive and elsewhere… fucking someone else, smiling at someone else, laughing with strangers. Belong to me utterly. Every word, every breath, every heartbeat. I don't care whether it kills you… just be mine, stay with me, don't leave me… never, ever leave me…_

Yohji sucked his lips between his teeth, his gaze darkly appraising. "Ayan?" he murmured then, voice taut as a string. "Aya, do you want to kill me?"

Aya bumped back against the door, his eyes widening in shock. To hear his fantasy spoken out loud, in brusque, plain words. Conjuring it a tiny bit closer to becoming real… Sweat was beading on Aya's skin, his lips turning grey. Yohji reached out, about to say something else; Aya burst from the room without looking back. Fleeing down the corridor to his own room and slamming the door shut behind him.

Yohji stepped out into the hallway and listened to the hard clack of the lock clicking into place. He slid his right hand back into the pocket of his blazer and felt absentmindedly for the coiled wire. It settled snugly against his fingertips. Caressing the cool metal, he bit his lip as he sent a stormy glance after Aya, as though he could bore through this door that had shut him out… as Aya always shut him out.

One day, one of those days or nights, he would hear Aya's answer. And once Aya picked up the courage to say it, Yohji would do what Aya wanted. He would always do what Aya wanted; he would prove it the only way Aya understood. Yes, he would prove it, beyond even Aya's doubts.

And then, Yohji thought, he could finally rip from Aya the reply to another, unspoken question.

He was willing – no, eager – to pay the price.

He only had to wait until Aya was ready to accept it.

xxx

Next chapter: Study in Red


	2. Study in Red

**Study In Red**

Schuldig sat on the edge of the pier, long jeans-clad legs dangling nervously over the concrete ledge, feet bare. His boots – black, heeled things of cuffed lacquer that practically screamed _take me_ – carelessly thrown behind him. Hunched over so he could watch the dirty water slop against the slimy green wall, bony elbows propped onto skinny thighs, Schuldig was smoking while he kept brushing back his long, unbound hair. He wore a clean pale blue button-down shirt that flapped loosely around his lanky form, and Yohji guessed it to be one of Crawford's things.

"He's gonna kill you if you're ratting down his stuff," he said, plopping down beside the redhead. Schuldig did not even twitch. He would have sensed Yohji long before a gust of warmth and spice enveloped him, and he merely puffed a thick blue cloud of cigarette smoke through his nostrils.

Yohji tried to figure out why Schuldig was studying the bits and pieces that floated on the oily brown water, and gave up. Rubbish, the bloated cadaver of a drowned rat, some stained orange peel, a piece of driftwood and a broken red plastic bucket. Things like that fascinated Schuldig and bored Yohji. Without a word, Schuldig offered him the cigarette. Yohji accepted and took a deep pull. The filter tasted bitter and salty, a little of mint and a hint of coffee. Schuldig's flavour. His smell, a mixture of dankness – like the whiff of clothes kept in a damp cupboard for too long – clean skin, cheap soap and sharp aftershave.

"You ought to be more careful," Yohji tried again, knowing that Crawford would never have allowed Schuldig to roam about this freely, a target now that Eszet were hunting Schwarz with a vengeance. Unless…

"Fuck careful," Schuldig groused and tossed the cigarette butt into the water. It expired with a hiss, and he flung his hair back over his shoulders with both hands. A sexy gesture, displaying his body with this odd mix of innocence and knowing temptation that always irritated Yohji. "Brad wants me to run about a bit, see whether they've cottoned on to us yet."

"He's using you as bait?" Yohji shook his head and fumbled for his own cigarettes. Schuldig's tobacco had tasted foul, of pot. He did not want to be fogged up now; with the redhead around it was better to be careful.

Schuldig leaned into him, making full contact and sliding his hands into the pockets of Yohji's slacks, then sliding up his flanks and finding the cigarettes and lighter in the breast pocket of his blazer. "Here." Wedged between index and middle finger, he dangled the packet before Yohji's nose. Yohji snatched it and shoved against Schuldig, who only sagged more into him.

"Idiot," Yohji growled, lit two cigarettes and slipped one between Schuldig's lips. "Let off and sit."

"Mannerly, so you don't get into shit with your little toy?"

"Shut up," Yohji snapped through a lungful of smoke.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm quiet already."

Yohji began to count. Schuldig managed five seconds before he wriggled, pillowing his head in Yohji's lap and blinking up at him with hooded eyes. "Good."

Yohji stared down at him. Surprised, uneasy and oddly touched that Schuldig's pale young face bore an expression of rare contentment. When had Aya ever been content like that?

He studied the faint pattern of freckles, a smattering on Schuldig's cheekbones, a few golden specks on the tip of his nose and on his brow. Lifted his hand that still held the cigarette packet and touched a blue-green bruise on Schuldig's jaw with his knuckles. "Why do you let him beat you?"

Schuldig's eyes closed, his face drained of colour and went blank. "Never mind."

"You like it?"

Silence. A dense cloud of smoke obscured those sharp young features, before Schuldig turned his face into Yohji's groin even as his arm snuck around Yohji's waist. Yohji jumped, Schuldig clamped down on him, and they struggled briefly before Schuldig suddenly released his grip and Yohji succeeded in pushing him off.

Schuldig laughed. "You're too sweet for your own good, Bali."

"Fuck off."

"Yeah. Do I like it? Do you like this? Hanging out with me when I'm diggin' around in your little mind? You any idea just how innocent you are? Bloody innocent, it makes me sick, that's why I'm staying out of your friggin' head. It's no fun. Too simple, Yotan. You only got a couple of things up there, a woman and a bloke. She's dead, and he is too 'cos he's an ice block, and he hurts you, you're bleedin' inside 'cos he's tearing you to shreds – so do you like that?"

He spat into the filthy water. "And now you won't ask me anymore why I'm goin' back for more 'cos you know why. I want an answer, and he's not fuckin' givin' it to me, but one day he will. He must. In the meanwhile, we're just going insane." He shrugged and gave Yohji a grin that bared his teeth and made his eyes too bright. "Sums it up?"

Yohji swallowed a mouthful of smoke. "Piss off," he said listlessly.

Schuldig sank back onto his heels and patted Yohji's back. "See? You understand. It's nice to know someone who understands, isn't it?"

xxx

Schuldig stood in Crawford's bedroom, in front of the long mirror that formed one door of the built-in wardrobe. The room was cramped and tidy. Crawford was anal. In the mirror, Schuldig could see the closed wooden blinds, grey daylight trickling through the gaps between the horizontal slats. The single bed shoved up against one wall. The bedside cabinet with reading lamp, a neatly folded pair of spare glasses, and a foil of strong prescription headache pills that had been obtained without bothering a doctor. Behind Schuldig stood a small computer desk, with a clothes trunk for a seat. Inside the wardrobe hung Crawford's suits and shirts, ironed and smelling of cleanliness.

Schuldig stared at his own reflection as he buttoned up another shirt, a white one this time with faint grey stripes. He wore boxer shorts beneath and nothing else. The sensation of air on his skin an illusion of freedom as he enveloped himself into the shirt as though it could replace Crawford's presence. Last night, sleeping alone on the narrow bed, he had tossed about in the throes of a nightmare so intense, he woke up screaming. Blind with pain, he had swallowed too many of the tablets, pressed out of their foil with shaking hands, and then he had spent some time with his head over the toilet bowl with his finger down his throat until he spat bile and the whitish goo that had been the tablets.

To sit down trembling on the tiled floor, his hunched back resting against the cold porcelain of the toilet, and stare at his hands until his fingers stopped twitching and he could trust his legs not to buckle when he crept on hands and knees into the bedroom.

The whole job was a mess. He had only agreed because Nagi looked ready to faint and Crawford had asked and told him no one else could do it. It was true, but Crawford knew… and Schuldig could not say no. Even though this was scaring the living shit out of him. His brains were one swimming mass of colours, noise and smells. He could not sense anything in particular. He had lost his focus the moment he dived into the craziness of the big city and was erring about in a haze of fear and exhilaration. He could not even remember where he had left Crawford and Nagi and Farfarello, and prayed Crawford had not just dumped him.

_Where the hell are you, Brad?_

The house lay in one of the suburbs, in a spot that was easy to find and easy to observe: a clean, open street with lots of gossipy neighbours and a small shop cum café down the road. Schuldig was unable to filter anything but his own grinding anxiety from the amorphous mass of emotions and thoughts that spun him in like some garish cocoon.

_I am going crazy._

He laughed quietly at his image in the mirror. It flashed bared teeth back at him. His team would be around somewhere, watching whoever was watching him. Which did not necessarily mean he was safe, or did it? The shirt smelled of Crawford, a precise, starched smell. The sharp, stiff creases of the fabric slid over Schuldig's skin like the blunt edge of a knife. Farfarello liked knifes, Schuldig remembered fuzzily, and where did that come from now? _Ah, creases… sharp…_

He shook his head, freshly washed hair flapping about his face in a shower of droplets that began to trail down his skin, drip onto the shirt and leaving dark stains on the fine weave.

The blue shirt lay crumpled on the stained carpet. Since Schuldig had settled in the empty house, he had hardly touched anything in one of the other rooms – three bedrooms, one lounge, a kitchen large enough for a table and four chairs. Bathroom down the hall, opposite the main door. Schuldig had inspected everything, found a bug in each room and left them as per Crawford's briefing. Which did not include orders where to sleep or to keep the place clean. The kitchen contained a mess of empty coke cans and discarded junk food boxes, crunched up on the floor, and from the bathroom to this one a trail of wet footprints and used towels marked Schuldig's tracks. Not that he did not try, but he was as unable to keep things tidy as to bundle his thoughts. He forgot. So Crawford, never one to waste time on pointless matters, had not even bothered to tell him.

He closed the button closest to his groin and let his hand linger in his crotch, his eyes drifting shut as he leaned forward and touched his brow to the cool glass of the mirror. Moving his fingers over the slight bulge. Swallowing the soft groan – he hated the idea of the bugs catching him out at _this_.

Playing sitting duck did not go down well with him at all. It made him ill, as anything restrictive did. Schuldig had to move about to feel reasonably well, and now he was stuck here, on Crawford's whim… _no, no, no, not a whim, Brad doesn't do whims, always methodical to a fault; why can't he ease up for once, at least in bed, and cut his stupid discipline, fuck him, oh, I'd like that, thank you very much, but it's his holy cow and…stop rambling. Stop it. Now._ Schuldig thought of Yohji too often who would be close, somewhere in this damn big pot of a city. He thought of how he had been yelling at Crawford, screaming out his panic until Crawford hit him, with cold precision, and knocked the wind out of him. Leaving him gasping, and then breathing the life back into him with a harsh kiss. And he had caught a glimpse of those dark chill eyes who were not chill at all and much darker than he had ever seen them, and it nearly unhinged him because…

Crawford was afraid. It hit Schuldig like a wave and left him aghast and speechless for once.

Crawford had not allowed a break. You must be careful, he had instructed Schuldig, lips close to skin, breathing even if a little faster than usual. You must pull yourself together. I rely on you. I cannot afford to lose you. There is no margin for error. They are after us, and I must know who they sent, and how close they are if I am to save our ass.

_So you love me after all?_

Crawford had simply walked out. Stalked off with long strides, not turning back once. It took Schuldig a while to understand that Crawford had left the house and would not return until further notice. Even when he heard the front door and the engine of the car spring into grumbling action, Nagi and Farfarello having one of their spats, cut short by the slamming of the car doors. He still refused to understand when the car roared off, the sound melting into the noise of other traffic on the busy street. He was standing in the middle of Crawford's room waiting like some dope. Stubborn. Determined to outwait him.

No one ever outwaited Crawford. No one ever outwitted him, either.

When he had to move because he needed to use the bathroom, he went to smash everything, relishing in the wave of cold, systematic rage that washed through him. He broke the plain mirror of Crawford's shaving set, the bottles with tablets and drops of whatever stuff they used to keep their diverse defects at bay – headaches, depressions, tempers, something for everything, all in a mess of puddles and crunched up crumbs on the tiles. He tore down the shower curtain and slashed it to strips with the shaving knife Crawford fancied. Then he sat down in the shallow tub and inspected the dull grey blade.

Mesmerised by its vague gleam. By its contrast to his white skin. He had always been pale. Against the steel of the knife, his hide was chalky. He stroked it experimentally with the blunt edge of the blade. Watching the thin, blushed line fade quickly. Too quickly. A swift, biting swipe with the sharp edge left a much more satisfying crimson line. Small beads, shiny red, pearling on silky white, trembling, quaking, reflecting, enlivening the garish striplight above the empty medicine cabinet.

He tasted those droplets. The flavour salty, metallic, disgusting. He spat out and smeared the glob with his bare feet, leaving a broad, reddish-brown streak on the dirty yellow tiles. Then he was sick into the toilet bowl.

"Why you stupid shit," a familiar voice poked into the soup that was his brains. A hand cupped his jaw, hard fingers pried open his mouth and stoked about a little until he was retching and heaving again and brought up the rest of the things he had swallowed. His vision swimming, he blinked up at the lanky figure that folded into a crouch by his side. "Bali?"

"Pull your act together," Yohji said, almost amused. "What if some of your friends found you like this?"

"Or you?" Schuldig managed, tried to pull himself up and fell back onto his knees, knocking his elbow on the bowl. He winced, and Yohji rose and pulled him up as well.

"Here, wash your gob," he said, turning on the tap over the sink and held Schuldig down so that the stream of tepid water hit his face.

He opened his mouth and drank, eyes closing against the glare of the lights. Yohji's grip on his arm and the back of his neck eased, and he was about to sag away again when Yohji caught him and dragged him out of the bathroom.

"Man, I must be daft," Yohji grumbled, "which room? Stupid question."

Schuldig found himself dumped on Crawford's bed and Yohji standing in front of the window. Arms folded, backside resting on the windowsill, a curious expression in his pretty eyes. "What's up, Schuldig?"

"Whatcha doing here?" came the cranky retort.

"Thought I'd pay a courtesy call."

"Yeah. Love you too."

Yohji smiled and lit a cigarette, then, after a moment of consideration, handed it to Schuldig. "When did you last eat?"

"Gods, Bali, you're not my mother."

"No, that's Crawford's job, not that I'd envy him."

"Did he send you?"

"Do I look like his runner boy?"

Schuldig felt the smoke pour into his lungs and another wave of nausea rise. He shook his head and held the cigarette out for Yohji to take.

Yohji took a few long pulls, dangling the cigarette loosely between his long, elegant fingers. Both men let the silence spread until it enveloped everything. It was a good silence, Schuldig thought, not thick or heavy or tense, like with Crawford. It was always tense with him because he would never allow himself to ease up. With Yohji, it could be easy, depending on the mood and the occasion.

"Then why the hell are you here?"

Yohji shrugged. "Dunno. You ever been jealous?"

Schuldig nearly choked, then he burst out in laughter. "You joking, right?"

Yohji shot him an odd glare.

"Jealous?" Schuldig sucked his lower lip between his teeth and began to worry at the pale flesh. His eyes slid half shut, and he wriggled a little, raising his arms to bed his head on them and drawing up one bare leg. In nothing but Crawford's shirt and the pair of skimpy blue boxers, in this rather wanton pose on the mussed bed, he looked strangely vulnerable.

Yohji's gaze rested almost lazily on the skinny form. Taking in hard, angular lines and the wild nest of copper hair that framed freckled cheeks. The gleam of pale blue eyes, knowing and alluring beneath long dark lashes, and the bobbing adams apple at the bird-thin throat.

"Like what you see?" Schuldig enquired, writhing some more in a surprisingly sensuous way.

Yohji bit onto the cigarette filter. _Aya, you asshole…_ "Forget it."

Schuldig huffed and squeezed his eyes shut. "Man, like shit I've been. He's drivin' me bonkers, but it's nice to know I can do it to him."

"Huh?"

"Get him mad at me."

Yohji gave Schuldig an odd glance. "So he hits you?"

Schuldig bit back a grunt. "And what? It'll heal. It's not like you and that nutcase of yours. Brad's not gonna kill me one day, yanno."

"Really."

"Really, really, really," Schuldig parroted, curling up and turning to the wall. "Why don't you just piss of now, Bali? Or are you checking up on me, hm? Brad been waiting for you then?"

Yohji said nothing. Smoking in silence, he swathed himself into layers of blue-grey. "How can you be so sure?" he asked after some time, not entirely sure whether he was talking into Schuldig's dreams, but Schuldig jumped a little – still awake then, sort of – and swore quietly.

"You're so stupid, Bali. I wanted to get an eyeful now, okay? I'd say it's a matter of trust. We trust one another. You don't. That crazy idiot needs you more than you need him, so he's trying to turn the tables on you. Get it?" Groaning, he sat up and raked his fingers through his mop of hair. "You know how often I get to sleep? And here you go…"

"Want a cigarette now?" Yohji slipped from the windowsill and settled on the footend of the bed, the mattress – hard and rigid like Aya's bed – dipping ever so slightly under his weight. Schuldig, swift and smooth as a cat, turned and bedded his head on Yohji's lap before he could protest, effectively pinning him down. An oddly hungry look on his young face as he slanted a quick glance up at Yohji. Almost pleading.

Yohji leaned back against the wall and let him take the cigarette that was almost down to the filter. Schuldig's hair felt soft and silky between Yohji's fingers when he rested his hands on his thighs. "Did you tell him I screw you?" Yohji asked, staring back.

Schuldig's lips curled in something approaching a smirk. "He assumed. Why should I put him right? Ouch! Don't pull my hair, I hate that!"

"Shut up." Yohji pondered, Schuldig lay still. Not restful but waiting, lurking, skulking in the shadows of Yohji's thoughts, as if counting his heartbeats… until he could pounce…

Schuldig liked games like this. Yohji was a nice toy, tough and bright, sweet and sharp. The flavour of ginger and spiced honey. Schuldig did not need to worry about breaking him soon. He licked his lips and burrowed his head deaper into Yohji's lap, relishing the hard grip of long fingers in his hair even if those fingers pulled in a rather hostile way. His own hands wandered, restlessly, over the rumpled sheets, seeking some sort of purchase, something to crunch and knead, or better still, tear into something.

"Stop it," Yohji ranted.

Schuldig stilled. Contented himself with breathing in Yohji's aroma, a mix of cleanliness, sex and the faintest trace of sweat. It made him dizzy and wanting to do something… anything…

Yohji's grip in his hair tightened, catching him in a vice. Still not wanting to hurt, but reminding him… a reminder of the steel beneath the velvet. Schuldig rubbed his head, ever so slightly, no more than a tiny shift, into Yohji's groin. He could hear Yohji grind his teeth and suppress a hiss. The hand that clutched at his hair pulled harder, until he was virtually unable to move. Strapped down against this firm, clean scented flesh by his own hair.

Schuldig breathed a low, soft sigh, laced with the last of the cigarette smoke, dangled his arm over the edge of the mattress and dropped the smouldering butt onto the neat wooden floor. Yohji stretched out one long leg and ground the cigarette end out with his heel. "Do you have to be like that? All filthy, like a pig?"

"Yeah, yeah. Go on, call me names if you like."

"I won't. I think you're pretending. You're not like that."

Schuldig tensed. Yohji watched him, he could feel it, and suddenly it was not a nice game anymore. He hated being stripped. Crawford could but never did it. "Let go of my hair."

"You would like to have some nice, clean little place to yourself. Nothing like that dump you had once, but a real place. Something to call a home. You would like to have silence in your head, for once. And you would want Crawford to tell you-"

Schuldig yanked his hair free, a few bright copper tendrils remaining in Yohji's grip, and coiled up like a loaded spring. Yohji was quick, Schuldig was faster – before Yohji could jump after him and catch him, Schuldig had spun towards the window and strung a wire taut between his hands. Yohji huffed – the redhead held one of his own hariganes, gleaming faintly in the grey light.

"You couldn't use it."

"Try me."

"I'm stronger. I'm taller. It's no good if you're lighter and shorter than your target."

Schuldig bared his teeth, blue eyes cold and manic. "He tried it?"

Yohji gave him a calculating glance. "Never mind that. You would want him to tell you he likes you. Just once. You want someone to tell you that. Crawford more than anyone."

Schuldig stared. His hands, thin and steady until then, began to tremble with a faint tremor that ran from his fingers through his wrists and arms, until it shuddered through his entire body.

Yohji sat back against the wall again. "Ah." He pulled up one knee and folded his hands over it. "So not even your pet-"

"He has a name," Schuldig managed, voice croaky and angry.

"Yeah."

An odd silence fell. Neither Yohji nor Schuldig stirred. Until Yohji cast a quick glance at his watch and let out a low whistling sound between his teeth. "Gotta go." He rose with sparse, few movements, tugged his clothes smooth, and shook his head. "You wanna freeze there?"

Schuldig blinked. "Huh?"

"Huh," Yohji aped, "just listen to yourself. You don't make sense, Schuldig."

"You would know," Schuldig hurled back, waking from his angry stupor.

"I do." Yohji turned briskly to leave. Schuldig, after a fraction of a second, ran after him down the hallway, to the door, and caught him by the sleeve just as he was stepping outside.

"Why did you come here, Bali?"

And Yohji sunk one of his strangely soft-cool green gazes into those wild blue eyes, a heartbeat of silence, the world stopped in its tracks, the breeze died down, even the swirls of dust on the road died down… and then he shrugged, smiled this infuriatingly gentle smile of his and said, "No idea, Schuldig. Really. I haven't the faintest idea."

Schuldig was torn between hitting and fleeing. Yohji walked a few long, smooth steps, before he turned, winked and said, barely above his breath, "Perhaps I like you, asshole."

And then he went, not looking back, and Schuldig gaped after him until his shape, tall and trim, with a certain sway to his hips, vanished behind a passing car and the next street corner.

xxx

Next chapter: Black And Cold


	3. Black And Cold

**Black And Cold**

"He doesn't." Crawford was blunt. He was annoyed. Schuldig had tried to clean up and made a greater mess of it than it had been. Dirty towels everywhere, because he had found nothing else to wipe the floor, a heap of broken glass and half-melted tablets next to the bathroom bin because there had been no dustpan or brush, the soap almost melted in the sink… he had forgotten to take it out. Crawford had surprised him by turning up that very evening, as if on Yohji's heels.

Crawford had brought a box of takeaway noodles and a pizza, which went nicely with the remaining can of beer from the sixpack that amounted to Schuldig's current provisions.

"If you cannot pull yourself together, you're dragging us all in."

Schuldig listened, sitting on the bedroom floor at Crawford's feet, which were encased in speckless black leather shoes. The shoes smelled of dead hide and polish. Familiar. He wanted to kiss them, hug them to his skinny stomach, or sprawl on his back and place the hard soles flat onto his chest. The words flowed through Schuldig's mind without registering, but the tone of Crawford's voice, flat and cool, washed over him. He felt empty, soothed, and restful.

"I want you to clear up this shit," Crawford said, "this is a pigsty. I refuse to return to this unless you sort it out. Buy some cleaning utensils. Make the bed. Wash your hair."

Schuldig tentatively leaned against Crawford's leg. Waited, tensely, for a kick or a shove. None came, and he dared to relax a little, pale blue eyes drifting shut. "Yes, Brad."

Crawford fell silent, then he bent forward and ruffled through Schuldig's hair. "You're such an idiot."

Schuldig smiled. There were ways and ways to make Crawford admit it. Getting his voice to soften a little like that, getting him to touch and formulate precise instructions about housekeeping all belonged into this category.

"Watch it," Crawford said, letting go as he caught sight of Schuldig's face.

And Schuldig carefully and obediently blanked his expression.

xxx

Next chapter: The Curb


	4. The Curb

**The Curb**

Yohji sat on the edge of the concrete pier, watching the slopping water. He was smoking. The collar of his tidy blazer turned up against the fine rain and the chill of the autumn breeze, his heels knocking softly against the greenish-grey wall as he dangled his legs. He did not want to go back yet. He had seen Crawford go into the house.

An odd, wrenching sensation dragged through his chest as he thought how ridiculous it was to envy someone like Schuldig, and how stupid that he could not help it.

Crawford contained Schuldig. They needed one another, part of the odd symbiosis that formed Schwarz where one was nothing without the others, but together they were all but unbeatable.

Yohji lit a new cigarette with the stub of the old one and tossed the butt into the dirty harbour water. Weiss had never been like that. Weiss had always been more independent, but also easier to split. It had just been his bad luck to fall for…

He started, instinct kicking in before he could think, hand darting for the harigane in his pocket and his body tensing without moving much. A finely tuned spring, coiled for action, waiting for the trigger.

And then the scent of pine and steel washed over him, and felt the warm press of a body folding into a crouch by his side and a hand joining his around the harigane. "You won't need it now," Aya said quietly.

Yohji closed his eyes for a moment. Aya pulled him close. Yohji let his head sink against Aya's chest and was wrapped into the embrace of Aya's hard, muscular arms. For a while, they remained still, listening to the bustle of the darkening docks, Yohji smoking, Aya wrinkling his nose.

"I hate you going there," Aya finally said when dusk began to obscure Yohji's features. "I don't understand it."

"He reminds me of you," Yohji replied softly.

Aya scowled, brushed his small hard hand over Yohji's brow as if to wipe aside a strand of hair. He missed Yohji's long hair. He let his hand linger, cupping Yohji's cheek and jaw, fingertips touching his eyelid. Warm, firm skin, pliant beneath his touch. "I am not like him."

"No," Yohji agreed, around a mouthful of smoke that welled between his lips and for a moment floated above his features like mist. "He is what you could have become." He turned his face into Aya's palm. "He reminds me to value what I have."

Aya bent low, his breath mingling with Yohji's, and kissed him on the forehead. "You do not know what you have. You do not know me."

"I know enough," Yohji said, "to trust you."

Aya's breath hitched in his throat. "You trust me?"

"Hai."

"Even if…"

Yohji's one visible eye gleamed up at him, and he felt Yohji's lips twitch in a small smile. "You're jealous, Ayan. I know how that feels."

"But," Aya gasped, "what if…"

"I'll be ready for you, loverboy." An odd undertone to Yohji's voice, a dark current that was anything but an empty threat, accompanied by the metallic whisper of the wire in Yohji's pocket – and Aya realised that Yohji had not let go of it all that time.

He allowed himself to relax a little. "Aa, so you will. You're mine, Yotan."

"I know that." Yohji closed his eyes and drew a lungful of Aya's scent, along with the cigarette smoke.

Another long silence, darkness settling over the harbour, lights springing up in clusters, sprinkled over the cranes and warehouses, mirrored in the lazily rolling waters. Aya absently caressed Yohji's shorn head, his face, and finally picked the smouldering stump of the cigarette from his lips to throw it away. Yohji smiled up at him, and for a moment, they locked eyes, Yohji quiet, Aya oddly breathless, before Aya whispered, "Could you kill me, Yohji?"

Yohji, without batting an eyelid, replied, "Aa, Ayan. I think I could."

"Good," Aya whispered, "Good." And leaned intohim tomet his lipsin a kiss.

**xxx**

The End


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